Jumper: Continuum
by Mr Twyst
Summary: Something is very wrong with the world. It is a world riven with fear, conflict and death that should not exist. It's up to one young man to put it right, despite the fact he is utterly powerless... Contains strong language.
1. Chapter 1

_(__AUTHOR'S NOTE__) So here we are, at the start of a brand new story. Note that I don't own any of the characters from the movie, but I can take them in brand new directions. Hopefully, this story will do that. All reviews appreciated. (__NOTE ENDS__)_

_The Paladin grunted as he stabbed the syringe into his arm, forcing the plunger down, slipping the white substance into his bloodstream. He flung the syringe away from him the moment he had finished and sunk to his knees. He held his head in his hands, nausea rising in his gut. Not at the thing in his system, but at what he was doing. If the others found out what was happening, they would be horrified. They would be even more horrified if they read Dr Conley's latest conclusions. Of course they would be. Religion and truth had never gone together. They wouldn't understand that this was the only way to achieve their ultimate desire – the only way to end a crusade began in a moment of deceit. _

"_Sir," a technician knelt next to him, "Sir, are you alright?"_

"_I'm fine," he grunted back. He straightened up, taking deep breaths. "Time to end this war," he muttered._

_He succeeded._

CHAPTER ONE

Griffin O'Conner swore loudly. The old lady at the desk looked up sharply, glaring at him in a way that would melt lead. Her eyes flicked to a sign that read 'SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY'. Griffin winced, returning his gaze to the paper on the table in front of him. A Physics essay on the diffraction properties of light. It was just the sort of essay Dr Smith would set – complicated, requiring the use of more equations than Griffin could remember and a discussion on De Broglie wavelengths.

He spent the next half hour tapping his calculator whilst trying to remember Planck's constant and trying to describe how photons could behave as both particles and waves. He was just making sense of_ lambda=h/p _when the college bell went off, jerking him out of wave-particle duality. Griffin's head shot up, and his hand snapped to his planner. His timetable listed his next session as Religious Studies. Inwardly he groaned. An hour of listening to the local Paladin drone about religious purity, the Archangel guarding them and reading passages from the third bible? He'd rather be in detention with Dr Smith. Unfortunately it was a compulsory session, and the college was obsessed with punctuality. Reluctantly, Griffin shoved his physics textbook into his bag and stood up.

He dragged himself into the lecture theatre a few minutes later with the last few people, to the Paladin's irritable cajoling. Griffin found himself a seat behind Matt Cooper. Matt glanced round, and nodded to Griffin. Griffin had always been a loner, but Matt was perhaps the only person he would describe as a 'friend'. Tall, thin, ginger and Welsh, Matt was quite a loner himself.

"Alright, alright," the Paladin called from the stage at the front of the theatre, "Calm down." Silence descended quite quickly, due to recently passed Acts which allowed schools and colleges to be much more heavy-handed in punishments. Griffin still had a nasty scar from screwing up the class several years ago, and he wasn't looking to repeat the experience in a hurry. "The book of Origin," the paladin said from the front, "Chapter six, verse seven." Dutifully, Griffin opened a weighty book laid out prior to the lesson, the Third Bible, and flicked through until he found the relevant page in the book of Origin, just after the book of the Still. He glanced up at the image present in every one of the college rooms, a portrait of the Supreme Pope, Adam Everett. Sometimes, Griffin wondered how a religious man came to rule the world, even though questioning faith was a sin, and against the law.

"Lord God," the Paladin intoned, "Guide us on the path that we may triumph over the enemy of our salvation and be with you in the end of ends on the planes of the enlightened."

Yep, it was gonna be a long hour.

After the bell clanged to signify the end of an hour of tedium, Griffin retreated to the canteen accompanied by Matt. After sixty minutes of being preached to about God, life, the twelve commandments and Satan's minions being able to transport themselves anywhere in the whole of creation at will, Griffin was in dire need of caffeine.

"God," Griffin muttered as he set his tray down on the table, "How the hell did a fucking religious lunatic get to be in charge?"

"Careful," Matt warned, eyes darting round the room, checking for listeners, "It's opinions like that which got Eliza Stoker arrested."

Internally, Griffin winced, but his face betrayed nothing. Eliza Stoker had originally formed a Protestant worship group, which annoyed the Catholic authorities, but her group had become a place for people who had problems with the world regime, religious or not. Griffin's sister, aged fifteen and younger than him by four years, had been a member. She had been at the meeting when they were all rounded up. She'd been in "protective custody" for nearly a year now, and Griffin's parents had heard nothing from/about her. Griffin set his mouth in a thin line and bit into his Cornish pastie. Matt didn't know about his sister.

"I don't have a problem with Everett ruling the world," Griffin said, the swallowed, "It's just the way the bastard forces everyone else to follow his bloody faith."

Matt openly winced. "You know my parents don't want me to have anything more to do with you?"

"What?"

"An SU creep turned up on the doorstep last night," Matt admitted. "Said you'd been heard making an anti-religious remark."

"Fuck," Griffin muttered. The Student's Union was a bunch of fanatical nutjobs whose role was to 'root out potential threats to God's Earth and nip them in the bud.' This included anyone with slightly different views, religious or otherwise. They were like the Gestapo on acid. The local chapter had originally viewed him as a slightly dysfunctional, attention-seeking youth, but this news might change everything. Griffin had heard stories of mysterious 'disappearances' and he knew them to be true, despite what the SU claimed. They must start to be taking him seriously if they were warning people away from him…

"Shit…" he said again.

"_Matthew Cooper to office S3, that's Matthew Cooper to office S3,"_ the loudspeakers crackled. Matt sighed and left the table, glancing back at Griffin. S3 was a Student Union office.

The afternoon dragged by. Griffin bunked off Physics and slouched into the centre of town. He didn't do anything, just walked round, his mind on other things. Drab buildings squatted on the sides of the streets, the shop names written above their doors in blocky writing – none individual, just the same monotonous design. The shops themselves were as interesting as the font that wrote their names – i.e. not very. Fiction was little more than religion obsessed pro-Paladin propaganda, clothes could not be too extravagant or revealing, lipstick was the only legal cosmetic. Propaganda covered the walls – 'Strength through Purity, Purity through Faith', 'Hallowed is the Lord', 'Enemies of the Lord show no mercy in their attempts to draw believers away from the Path.'

A vendor offered Griffin a newspaper, but Griffin grunted in refusal. He plodded on, past the church - a red brick edifice that dominated the skyline with its tower, casting other buildings around it into shadow. Griffin turned his head to avoid looking at it. He moved into an alley, crossing a main road before turning into an arcade. He stopped at a boarded up shop front, where one of his dad's friends used to work. He remembered listening to James Michalowski describing, in private, what life had been like before Everett took over the EU and invaded America. That wasn't part of the official history Griffin was taught from an early age in school, rather a secret legacy suppressed by the authorities. It was one of those old history books – 'Satanist propaganda and not the true history' as it was described, dspite it being published before Everett came to power - that had got him arrested. Michalowski had described times of 'individual freedom', a concept which had appealed to Griffin. The thought of being able to choose how he wanted to live his own life, rather than having it dictated by five thick books, was a nice dream to have, but sadly impossible.

Griffin grunted to himself, and turned away. If the SU was classing him as a potential threat, it was likely he'd just ended his chances of a comfortable life. People with opinions generally didn't do very well in the sense that they were often/usually taken into 'protective custody' and never seen again.

It wasn't until six that he finally got home to a small, semi-detached house in Enfield with a large rosebush in the front garden. He let himself in and found his parents cooking dinner. Robert and Hannah O'Conner were an average middle-aged couple with relatively secure finances, a comfortable enough house and little stress. They were also a little over-protective of their son, not wanting Griffin to be taken away like their daughter.

"Where have you been?" was Hannah's first question the moment Griffin had locked the door.

"About," Griffin replied brusquely, kicking his trainers off and slouching up the stairs.

"It's teatime in a few minutes," his mum called after him. "Shepherd's pie."

"Not hungry," Griffin's voice floated down the stairs.

Hannah sighed and shifted her son's plate onto the sideboard.

"You alright?" Robert asked.

"It's just Griffin," she replied. "He seems… on edge.'

"You can tell all that from three words? I'd say that was unusually talkative of him."

"Do you think there's something wrong at college?"

Robert shrugged, spooning carrots onto his and Hannah's plates. "He'll be all right. It's just… that time of the year." He glanced towards the photograph of Louise, their daughter, on top of the microwave. She had been taken in early February, almost a year before.

"Yes," Hannah said quietly. "I suppose that's it." There was a short, sad silence, then Robert finished serving, and put what was left of the meal in the fridge for Griffin.

Griffin pushed his bedroom door shut and leant against it, closing his eyes and thinking. That was what got people into trouble, thinking. You thought too much, and you started to realize just what was wrong with the world. It was Everett. Then, once you had realized that, you also discovered there was nothing you could do about it.

Griffin sighed. Suddenly he felt very tired. He pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it on the floor, and fell forward onto his bed.

It wasn't until midnight that he woke up in a sweat, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He groaned and climbed out of bed, moving over to the window. He opened it, letting the cold air wash over his skin. He stood there for a few minutes, listening to the silence. Then he heard it. The faint clatter he recognized as gunfire. He pulled the window shut and returned to bed, pausing only to remove his jeans. It was another person who'd thought and was now not so quietly 'disappearing' like all the others.

In this conclusion, he was utterly and irrefutably wrong.

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) So there you have it. Chapter one. There aren't any prizes for guessing what's happened, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. I can also promise the answers to many questions in later chapters, although I have to rotate between working on this and a Dr Who story, _The Land that Time Forgot_. Thanks for reading! (_END NOTE_)


	2. Chapter 2

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) So, here's chapter two, and the story's progressing, with quite a significant character turning up. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. By the way, I forgot to mention in the notes on chapter one, thanks to Kaylee Tam for beta reading services. Now, enjoy the story! (_END NOTE_)

CHAPTER TWO

An alarm rang out, its steady, electronic wail cutting through the air and giving the technicians headaches. Dr Anghelides glanced at his screen, confused. The system had shot up to full alert, for no apparent reason. He punched a few keys, searching for the source of the computer's tantrum. He located it in London, just outside Enfield town. A small anomaly in the atmospheric composition. He hit a button to access details, and hopefully work out why the computer had flagged it. A large red box popped up, reading 'SECURITY PROTOCOL 241F-19AB-C453-3C18. PLEASE ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE.' Anghelides sighed, and punched in his twelve digit code. As head technician at Archangel, the surveillance applications had been his responsibility to oversee – audio and visual surveillance, phone taps, e-mail taps and the maintenance of the Milnet. But he didn't remember programming in an alert about atmospheric anomalies, unless a climatologist had done so without telling him. Mentally, Anghelides added checking that to his memo list.

The computers hummed as they processed Anghelides' code, before flashing up 'ACCESS DENIED – SECURITY LEVEL: α-SUPER'. Anghelides stopped, staring at the security level. Alpha-Super. That security level meant it was for the eyes of the Supreme Pope himself, and for no-one else. Why would his holiness need to be alerted to the presence of an atmospheric anomaly? Painfully aware that he had just stumbled onto sensitive information, Anghelides reached for the phone that sat next to his computer.

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Griffin jerked awake, his alarm beeping irritatingly. He groaned and hauled himself out of bed, whacking the alarm clock as he passed to switch off its shrill screams.

It was Wednesday, which was a shit day. Griffin swore several times as he realized that he had double RS, Physics, Critical Bloody Thinking at College, and Compulsory Explorer Scouts in the afternoon.

He splashed cold water onto his face from the wash basin, pausing to look at himself in the mirror. He needed to work on his chest. He noticed the bags under his eyes, possibly a sign of stress. He sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers. Two whole hours in a lecture theatre with the Paladin. What fun.

He washed, dressed and shoved his school books into a bag before grabbing a bread roll on his way out. He chewed it on his way up to the bus stop, not really noticing the taste. When the bus arrived, he dropped his bag onto one of the seats near the middle, and sat down next to it. Nobody greeted him, and he returned their lack of interest with sullen silence. He stared idly out of the window as the bus ground its way towards the College, not noticing the kid a few rows back who was intently gazing at the back of Griffin's head.

The bus rumbled round a corner and jerked to a stop. The driver swore, crunching the gears as he struggled to manoeuvre the ungainly vehicle past a large black SUV parked just outside an alley. Griffin watched the car with interest – SUVs were vehicles reserved for Paladin officials, their doors engraved with the double cross. The interesting thing was the skull positioned on the left of the cross' vertical shaft, and a series of hexagons forming the letter T on the right. That emblem had never been mentioned in an RS lesson. The alley behind the car was cordoned off, a large, silent man in dark glasses standing guard. Griffin wondered what was behind the cordon, but he could only speculate. The kid behind him, however, did not even try to speculate, because he didn't care. He had a job, which was to watch Griffin O'Conner, and, by God, he was going to do it.

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Anghelides sighed. He'd reported the anomaly, and sent details to the head of the Secret Intelligence Service, then been told to forget all about it. Anghelides had the sense not to ask why, although he wanted to know why. He'd called in a favour he was owed, and been given one word: Torchwood. Throughout the Paladin departments, there were whispered rumours of an organization separate from World Central Government, Outside the Paladins, Beyond the SIS. A group who could do anything they pleased, and were answerable only to the Supreme Pope himself. Torchwood. Gossip said they were ruthless, unforgiving and refused to give up in pursuit of their goal. But why was such a group interested in an atmospheric anomaly?

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Several hours later, Griffin stared vacantly at a passage from the Book of Atrus (The twelfth book of the Fourth Bible, Chapter Six, verse two) whilst the Paladin at the front of the lecture theatre spoke aloud.

"'Fear not the Lord; fear the darkness that would conceal the knowledge of the universe. Believe in the truth of all things, and you too may find the path to enlightenment.'" The Paladin paused, surveying the mass of humanity before him. "What Atrus is attempting to say in that passage is that pure faith is the only true path to Heaven, to join the ranks of the angels and bask in the glory of the Lord." The paladin paused again, allowing the college bell to ring. When it had finished, he called over the commencing hubbub "Complete the analysis of the Messages in the third and fourth chapters of the Book of Marrim by Monday." Griffin swore under his breath. Another essay. "Griffin O'Conner, a word in my office," the paladin added, as if it was an afterthought. Griffin glanced up to find himself staring straight into the eyes of the Paladin. The man beckoned, then turned and walked into the small office off the lecture theatre.

Sullenly, Griffin gathered up his books and walked towards the office, his feet dragging slightly. No doubt the religious propaganda-filled bollocking he was about to receive was not about his consistently poor grades.

He entered a neat, tidy office furnished with a desk, a few filing cabinets and lots of candles. The five volumes of the Bible lay on velvet cushions on separate lecterns in what looked like a shrine area, close to a lit brazier filling the air with the pungent scent of incense.

The Paladin pushed the door shut behind him, locking it with a key on a string around his neck. He moved towards the desk, turning to face Griffin.

"Young man," he said, regarding Griffin with distaste, "I have received reports from some of the good folk of the Student's Union who are suspicious that your devotion is… indefinite." He paused, possibly more for effect than anything else. "I was wondering what you had to say on the matter." He paused again, waiting for Griffin to speak. Griffin said nothing. "Well," the paladin prompted, lines on his forehead deepening with concern, "are they mistaken?"

"Yes, sir," Griffin replied in a low voice, not looking the Paladin in the eye, "I have not strayed from the Path. I just feel… discontent." The Paladin's eyes narrowed.

"The purpose of the Commandments is to protect you from evil which would draw you from the Path. Are you not taking them seriously?"

"I do," Griffin said, perhaps a little too quickly, and the older man raised his eyebrows.

"Really?" the Paladin drawled, "then 'how the hell did a fucking religious lunatic get to be in charge?'"

Griffin visibly paled.

"Did you think the Lord would not here the evil words on your tongue?" The paladin walked towards the brazier, lifting a long pole out of the flames. Its end was glowing brightly, red hot. He approached Griffin, the branding iron held out in front of him.

He stopped, just in front of Griffin, the boiling metal almost touching Griffin's cheek. Griffin could feel the blistering heat burning his skin, yet not touching.

"'Those who abandon the Path are evil,'" the Paladin quoted, "'Those who are evil must be destroyed.' Remember that, boy," There was a pause, then the Paladin tapped Griffin's cheek with the brazier. Long enough for it to hurt, but not long enough to leave a mark. Griffin winced as the heat leapt through his nerves, registering as pain.

"Also remember Amica," the Paladin said, "He strayed from the Path, but when he realized his mistake, he was forgiven." He put the branding iron back in the brazier, and unlocked the door. "Go," he said, turning away in disgust.

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Mr Cole surveyed the deserted alley and sniffed. He could feel the anomaly, or what was left of it, just a few feet in front of him. Although it was fading, he could still feel its profanity. A technician ran a handheld scanner over it, analyzing the precise quantity of radiation released, carefully avoiding treading on the bodies. Two police officers, their throats cut, guns empty, lay just underneath the anomaly. Cole eyed them coldly. It was a disgrace to the police force that they hadn't been better. But, then again, why should he care? Cole's group took over investigations only when something of great interest to the Supreme Pope was occurring.

A junior member approached him then, holding a file in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. Cole accepted both items without comment, and sipped the tea as he flicked through the file. A little too much sugar. The junior's pay would have to be docked. Cole scanned the file, reading the case history. He raised his eyebrows. So this was why his Holiness was so agitated. He flicked to a report from Archangel, noting that the source of the anomaly was still in the area. It shouldn't be too hard to find.

Cole turned to his number two, Mr. Nero, "I want a guard left here, and Archangel on the lookout." He raised his voice to address his entire team. "Okay, people, saddle up. This one could be tricky, so keep your eyes peeled and weapons ready. Remember, if we succeed here, it'll be a great big feather in Torchwood's cap."

His speech over, Cole turned, and headed back to the SUV, leaving Nero to organize the men.

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It was getting late, and people were starting to wind down after the stressful day. Robert and Hannah O'Conner were watching the latest reports on the Crusade against the infidel in the middle-east, Griffin was struggling to work on the RS essay after a few hours of dull bible-bashing at the compulsory Explorer Scout meeting, Mr Cole was organizing patrols, and other tasks around the city varied between watching TV, reading, eating and having sex.

Kate was not doing any of those things, because she was at a party. It was a Girl's night out to celebrate her friend's twenty-first birthday in the local speakeasy.

The Old Pink Dog was a quiet restaurant which secretly sold illegal alcohol, and had so far escaped detection with generous donations to the Church benevolent fund. It was, therefore, a frequent haunt of teenagers and black market sellers.

Kate was sipping a cocktail when the birthday girl – her best friend, Claire – nudged her and pointed out a young man sitting at a corner table, nursing a beer.

"Oh, no!" Kate said, realizing that Claire and the others were going to try and set her up with the young guy. They had joked about it earlier, but Kate had thought it was just that – a joke.

"Whyever not?" Claire asked, glancing at him again. He appeared not to have noticed. "He looks nice."

"Because I want to choose my own boyfriend!"

"So go chat," Claire said with a cheeky grin, "See if you like him or not."

"This night is supposed to be about you," Kate pointed out. "It's your birthday."

"Yes," Claire replied, swigging her drink, "and I want you to go chat with him."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Justine added. "We've all got boyfriends, although I'm going off Peter, but you've never had one."

"C'mon," Sophie put in, "You should have someone. For all you know, he could be your elusive Mr Right."

"No," Kate said, raising her drink to her lips, although she knew they had a point.

There was a short silence as Sophie thought for a moment, then she asked, "How will you find Mr. Right if you won't talk to any boys?"

Kate finally conceded, "All right," she sighed, and got up.

"Excuse me," she said when she got to the young man's table, "but my friends are badgering me to chat with you. D'you mind?"

He regarded her for a moment, hostility flaring in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced.

"Sure," he said in a soft accent, suggesting an origin somewhere up north outside the London Zone. "But I warn you, I have bad social skills."

Kate sat down, placing her drink in front of her, noting the muscular physique under the young man's shirt.

"So," she said, "What's your name?"

He swallowed his drink, and started to speak, "Grif-" but abruptly broke out into a coughing fit. When he recovered, he cleared his throat, then finished what he had been saying. "Griffiths, James Griffiths."

"Hudson," Kate said, "Kate Hudson."

"Nice to meet you," James replied.

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) According to Mr Tam, my betareader, there is one thing which you may find slightly confusing, which is precisely what Griffin is doing – wheteher he's doing an essay or lying about who he is. I can promise that it will be explained in the next chapter, as soon as I've written it. Cheerio, I have to be at a pantomime shortly… (_END NOTE_)


	3. Chapter 3

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) So, here's chapter three. After the confusing encounter of James Griffiths and his suspicious cough (which was, incidentally, exactly what it appeared to be), I promised an answer. So, this chapter has the answer. Read on, and find out for yourself. Thanks to Kaylee Tam for beta reading. (_END NOTE_)

CHAPTER THREE

Cole strode up to the fifty-foot caravan parked incongruously on the third floor of a multi-story car park, passing the small painted letter T composed of hexagons. Cole swept his access card across the reader by the door, pulling the door open and stepping through. He paused for a moment, swinging his eyes over the state-of-the art machinery lining the walls of the portable lab before settling them on the technician, John Roberts.

Roberts glanced up as Cole entered, not smiling. If anything he got more nervous. Cole could tell he was nervous, from the slight tremble of his hand, the fraction of a second he stared, the minute bob of his throat. This wasn't unusual. Most people were nervous around Cole.

"Mr Cole," Roberts said after a moment, "I've analyzed the blood sample from the scene."

"Of course," Cole interrupted, "That's why I'm here."

"Er… Yes." Roberts turned, pushing his octagonal glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

A few hours after Cole's visit to the scene of the anomaly that morning, the forensic guys had pulled up a bloodstain. From the amount of blood, it looked like the spill was from a small cut. Since then, Roberts had been analyzing the blood and cross-referencing it with the DNA profiles of the two policemen.

Roberts tapped a button on the computer, and an image popped onto the screen.

"This sample's not from the policemen, so it's our guy. I've done all the standard tests," Roberts said carefully, "and found no traces of drugs or foreign substances."

"So our guy's not a drug addict?" Cole mused. "Of course. How else could he take down two policemen?"

"That's not the point;" Roberts said nervously, "the sample shows no trace of drugs, including Treasure."

Cole was silent, thinking. No Treasure… that explained a lot more. Cole was one of the few people privy to the purpose of Treasure, and the idea of someone with none of the drug in his system… no wonder the supreme Pope was panicking.

"…and that brought up no results," Roberts was saying, "Then I ran a search against the world's DNA database, and I've found something quite interesting." He tapped another key, and another image appeared.

"Oh my," Cole muttered, "That is interesting…"

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Kate was getting more at ease as time passed. James leaned back in his chair, swigging his drink. He wasn't nearly as bad a person as he'd made out, and when she'd told him this, he'd grinned, evidently pleased with himself.

"I've been practicing social skills – y'know, tolerance, small talk, compliments," he had said. Kate had asked how he was before the practice, but James' response had been hard to catch.

They spent the time talking and learning about each other. When James got up to refill his empty glass, Kate checked her watch and got a slight shock. She had been talking to him for a little over an hour. She glanced up as a shadow fell over her, expecting James back, but was surprised to see Claire.

"So," the birthday girl asked, sounding surprisingly sober for the amount she usually consumed at parties, "How is he?"

Kate paused for a moment, thinking. "He's a nice guy," she said after a while.

"And quite good looking," Claire pointed out, and Kate nodded in agreement.

"He's…" Kate continued, struggling to think of an adjective.

"You like him," Claire said, displaying her usual talent for being oddly perceptive, even when drunk. Not that she was drunk. Kate couldn't tell if her friend was either drunk, or slightly tipsy, or putting it on. Claire was naturally a friendly person.

"Listen," Claire said, "Me and the girls are gonna head back home, maybe play strip snap with a few of the boys." Yep, she was drunk.

Kate glanced over to see Justine swaying slightly as she followed Sophie to the toilets.

"Or if you'd rather, you can stay here with Mr Right, provided you tell us about it," Claire smiled cheekily, the sort of smile she reserved for subjects of gossip.

"I think I'll stay here," Kate decided. Claire just smiled and nodded. She turned to go, glancing back at Kate. Kate watched her leave, hoping her friend wouldn't get picked up by the police or SU operatives.

"See you in the morning," Claire said before heading off.

"Have fun," Kate called after her, wondering if her friend would.

A few minutes later, James settled back into his seat, putting his drink down in front of him.

"Sorry," he said, smiling. "Where were we?"

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Griffin threw his pen down onto the desk and sat back in his chair, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. After five hours of solid work, he'd finally done it. He'd written an RS essay in one night. It was probably his best work, too. Of course, he'd have to do more to convince the paladin he hadn't strayed from the Path. He'd seen them, the Godless, living feral lives outside the exclusion zones, in the wastelands. If he wasn't careful, he could end up out there. Or worse.

He stood up, rubbing his eyes. After that, he felt very tired. But at least he'd done it. He yawned and glanced at his watch. Seeing it was past eleven, he left his room and went to the bathroom, where he stripped off his shirt and washed before returning to his bedroom. He slept, oblivious to everything else that was going on in the world. Oblivious to Kate arranging to meet James Griffiths again in the near future, to Claire being asked to step into a police car, to Cole putting in a request for surveillance data, and to the paladin adding his name to a list of people who may be Godless.

He was oblivious to someone making a plan, one to which he was vital.

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James Griffiths shut the door to his room in the guesthouse and turned the key in the lock.

"Where have you been?"

James turned towards the voice immediately, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Out," he said, a tremor in his voice.

"We need to further the plan," said the shadowy figure in the corner of the room. James' vision moved to a laptop sitting on the small bedside table. He looked at the figure again.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "I've done my time, and now I'm doing what we need."

"Then do it," the figure snapped. James blinked, and it was gone.

James sighed. The figure was right, despite the fact it shouldn't be here. He settled down on the bed, and opened the computer.

It was time.

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Cole groaned, tapping the earpiece in response to its incessant bleeping.

"What?" he snapped.

"Sir," Roberts' voice filtered over the tiny speaker, "We've just detected a probe in the Milnet."

"What?"

Civilians used the internet for communication and entertainment – strictly monitored, of course – whilst the Milnet was a top-security version of the internet containing classified documents and for use only by the military, SU officers, secret service officers and Torchwood agents. And for someone to have hacked into it…

"Do you have a source?" Cole snapped, heading for the portable laboratory as fast as possible, leaving Nero midway through dictating a request for data.

"Not yet, sir. The probe is protecting itself with algorithms based on the NSA programmes from the American conversion, but work on a different principle – it's much more sophisticated, unlike anything I've seen-"

"Don't bother me with how it works!" Cole snapped, "Where has the probe been?"

"The school database, classified locations-"

"What classified locations?"

"I'm just trying to work it – shit! The probe just withdrew!"

"Get a source location!" Cole broke into a run as the lab came into view, sprinting to its side and yanking the door open. He bounded aboard, heading straight to where Roberts typed furiously at a computer console.

"I'm working on it, sir," he said, not looking at Cole, biting his tongue as he concentrated.

Finally, Roberts grinned and leaning back from the computer, punching the air as he cried out, "Got it!"

"Where?" Cole snapped.

"A small guest house in Enfield, room four," Roberts said, tapping at the computer again while Cole relayed the information to Nero and the patrols via the radio. When he had finished, he glanced back at Roberts.

"Technician."

"Yes, sir?" Roberts glanced up.

"Contain your emotions," Cole said as he left the lab, "You're a Paladin, not a cheerleader."

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Shortly later, Cole stalked back into the lab. Nero had got to the guesthouse, only to find the guest in room four had checked out five minutes before. Nero was now conducting a search of the surrounding area for a certain 'James Griffiths', but had so far turned up nothing. Then Roberts called on the radio.

"Sir," the young technician said as his Commanding Officer entered. "I've found that the probe's defence algorithms were based on a CIA code we've only encountered once before. It's very likely that the two probes are connected."

Cole regarded Roberts angrily, "You called me here to tell me that?"

"Not just that," Roberts said (hastily), looking a little nervous. "I've traced what the probes were searching for." He turned back to the computer. "The first CIA probe hacked into the Red List, looking for a certain person. This person lives in the nearby area, as found by the second probe."

"Really?" Cole said.

"Yes."

"Do we have a name for this person?" Cole asked.

"Sure we do," Roberts said, looking satisfied despite Cole's earlier warning, "Griffin O'Conner."

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) There we have it, chapter three. The story jumping round to move the plot along, if you'll forgive the pun. Although, the writing of chapter four may slow down a little, what with my other project (_Doctor Who:_ _The Land that Time Forgot_) and working on the plans for two more stories (_another Jumper story and a very long game adaptation_), before making the probable mistake of writing several stories at once. Anyway, what dies this mean for Griffin? Until next time… (_END NOTE_)


	4. Chapter 4

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) Hi there. Sorry for the lack of updates recently, but my beta-reader, Kaylee Tam, had a few problems with his/her workload, which necessitated a search for a new beta-reader. I'd like to thank Kaylee Tam for what he/she has so far done, and also extend thanks to Silver Sailor Ganymede, who has agreed to be the new reader. Preamble over, on with the show. (_END NOTE_)

CHAPTER FOUR

Cole listened to the angry voice on the other end of the secure satellite phone. He was used to dealing with this man, who usually sat in a plush office in the Vatican palace. The man got angry and petulant regularly, especially because of the matters dealt with by Torchwood.

"But sir, O'Conner's blood sample from a recent medical examination shows a normal level of Treasure, so-"

He paused as the voice on the other end snapped something at him.

"Yes, sir, there has to be a reason why the probe singled him out-" he stopped again, as he was interrupted once more. Eventually the voice stopped, and Cole took a breath. "Yes sir. We'll do that. ASAP. Yes, I'll arrange that, God be with you," he hung up, and stood there, biting his lip in thought.

"You alright, sir?" Nero asked as he passed Cole.

"Nero," Cole asked, "How long will it take to put together a snatch team?"

"It can be done by morning," Nero replied.

"Then make it so," Cole replied.

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Griffin came down the stairs, physics work under his arm, and walked into the kitchen to grab some toast before he was late for the bus. It took him only a moment, because his mother had put some toast put on the breakfast table. He left the house, still chewing the toast, slinging his bag over his back as he strode up the road.

He stopped at the bus stop, shoving some more toast into his mouth, and waited for the bus to get there. Normally, the bus would arrive about ten minutes after it was supposed to, and he supposed today would be no different. The annoying thing about buses like this was the fact that they always came late, so you thought that wouldn't miss it if you set out a little later and so decided to have a lie in. Then the blasted thing started coming on time without any warning, causing you to miss it.

Then there was the small matter of the Paladin at the college. He had the power to do pretty much whatever he wanted, be it dismissing lecturers or alerting the police to wayward students. Griffin supposed he was actually lucky to have received a verbal warning – some paladins in other colleges didn't bother with that; they just sent a notification to the propaganda board, which'd either send you to a faith boot camp or add your name to the black list of people whom it was illegal to employ.

Griffin glanced round as a black SUV rumbled past him, but his mind was elsewhere. He was pondering over how he felt about a girl his age called Kate Alexander, whether or not he should ask her out. She was pretty and intelligent, and, most importantly, single. But she had refused a date with Nick Harper, perhaps the best looking guy this side of the Thames, so why would she be interested in someone like Griffin? The more positive side of him suggested that maybe she was looking for someone nice on the inside, but again, the argument went, why would she like Griffin? He was sarcastic, and rather unpleasant. But when he had sheepishly admitted this to Matt, his friend had said that he was a decent guy underneath it all. Maybe he should try being more open. At the time, Griffin had snapped at him. Now, he was reconsidering. Maybe it would show some humility, and stop the Paladin adding his name to any list.

He glanced up again as the black SUV turned the corner a second time and drove towards him, one of its windows rolling open. He ignored it – probably just someone who'd got lost. Then, as it passed him, the dart hit him in the shoulder.

Immediately blackness began to eat at the corners of his vision. Then he was on the floor, unaware of even having fallen. He lay next to the bus stop, a red-feathered dart protruding from his shoulder, as Cole shoved a black cloth bag over his head. Then Nero picked him up, and carried him over to the SUV. A female team member opened the boot, and Nero dumped Griffin's body into it like a sack of potatoes.

Barely three minutes after the first pass, Griffin O'Conner was in protective custody. Of course, the old ladies who lived by the bus stop called the police, but they were ordered to cease all investigations, in a communiqué sent by the Supreme Pope himself.

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Later that night, Kate was waiting outside the cinema in Enfield town. She was quite excited to be seeing James again, and she felt it was worth it after enduring Claire's smugness at encouraging her to meet him. Claire had been picked up by the police after drinking too much at _The Old Pink Dog_, but had escaped with a caution, because her dad was a local vicar. He had, no doubt, grounded her, but Claire had made Kate promise to tell her all that transpired between the two of them.

When James arrived, a few minutes late, she greeted him warmly.

"Sorry," he replied, "Just sorting things out in my new accommodation."

"Will I get to see it?"

"Depends," James replied, with a cheeky grin.

They entered the cinema together, and James paid for two tickets to see _Kingdom of Heaven_, an action epic movie with very Christian overtones. It was the film's last week of showing after its re-release, so the screening room was almost empty. They were able to have a few whispered conversations without disturbing a party on the other side of the room. When she mentioned that someone had gone missing that morning, James had seemed to become more alert.

"Who?" he'd asked.

"Some loser called Griffin O'Conner," Kate said dismissively, "Claire said that he seems to like me, but he's such an unpleasant guy. Maybe if he was more like you…"

She trailed off, noticing James' grim expression.

"Sorry," she said.

James glanced at her, and smiled, "It's okay," he said quietly. They ceased conversation for a short while as the film's opening sequence began, but started again in the duller bits.

It was at the start of the big battle scene at the film's climax that Kate looked away. James noticed her not watching the screen, and glanced at her.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, leaning closer to hear her reply.

"I don't like the blood and gore," she whispered.

"If there was something you'd rather have seen, you should have said," he replied. She regarded his face for a moment, noting the steep line of his jaw, the prominent cheekbones, his light eyes.

"To be honest," she whispered, "I'd rather see you."

He smiled, and then she noticed how close they were. His face was inches away from her, smiling a lovely smile. She smiled sheepishly, and then moved her head closer. He did the same, at exactly the same moment, independently of her. Their lips brushed together, and they kissed. Kate felt a thrill rush through her, an alien thrill, and she instinctively pulled away, returning her attention to the screen.

"You okay?" James whispered.

"Fine," Kate replied, continuing to look at the screen.

There was a short silence, and then James spoke again, "Sorry," he whispered.

She smiled, reflecting on just how _good_ the kiss had felt. She turned to look at him.

"There's nothing for you to be sorry about," she said.

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The door to the holding cell swung open, and in marched several men. Griffin regarded them in stony silence. After the events of that morning, he'd woken up hours later in this small room, handcuffed to a chair, a bright bulb shining in his face. The faceless man outside the light had had asked a lot of questions, demanding to know about any event in his life that might make him a target for the Godless. When he refused to answer, two goons had moved in with knuckledusters, and it was very likely the marks on his face would scar. He'd admitted that his sister had been a member of Eliza Stoker's protestant worship group, but that had been brushed aside.

His interrogator had mentioned something called 'Torchwood', and demanded to know why they were interested in him. Of course, Griffin couldn't answer that, but the man kept pressing for an answer, and wouldn't accept any that Griffin gave him.

Now he was back, again standing outside the glare of the lamp. The two goons came forward, roughly seizing Griffin's wrists and unlocking the cuffs.

"Well, boy," said the faceless man, and the goons hauled Griffin to his feet and re-cuffed his hands behind his back, "it appears that you will be staying with us for a much longer period."

The goons dragged Griffin through the door and into the corridor. He began to struggle, but something hit him, and everything went black.

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) Ah, things are starting to pick up now. Who knows where things will go from here (and no, I don't, but I will). I've had this great idea (well, I think so) to link it into another couple of _Jumper_ stories taking shape in my mind, creating a tradition of ripping off movie titles. _Auf wierdersehn_ for now. (_END NOTE_)


	5. Chapter 5

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) Welcome back to _Continuum_. I'm back after a short absence, with the next chapter or two. Sorry about the wait, but I've been a bit busy with exams and my school's whole drive into university applications. Anyway, here's the latest chapter. (_END NOTE_)

CHAPTER FIVE

It was late when James Griffiths said goodbye to Kate, and started off on his own down a side street. It was a short walk to a small manhole set incongruously behind a dustbin. He retrieved a key from a string around his neck, and slid it into an unobtrusive hole in the manhole's circumference. The manhole squeaked, then clunked. James reached into the hole and tugged the manhole aside. He swung his legs onto the ladder and began to lower himself down, pulling the metal disc over his head and locking it. He continued to descend into the cellar – belonging to the department store above, though they didn't know that – which was scattered with objects. An unmade bed, some equipment he'd stolen from construction sites or various shops, and a CCTV monitor hooked up to a camera hidden in the brickwork of the alley.

James ignored all this and headed straight for a locked metal cabinet standing against the wall. It was covered in dust, cobwebs and rust, although the lock worked fine. He used another key to open it, and took a flashlight from the top shelf. He reached to the wooden floor of the cabinet, and pulled it aside. It was hinged and revealed a square shaft ending in a sloping wall. That turned out to be another disguised trapdoor, and James swiftly climbed down the ladder attached to its inner side. Once down, he closed it, locking it with a third key in a disguised keyhole. Now he was in the London sewers, the trapdoor disguised as a segment of the arched roof. James paused for a moment, admiring the handiwork he had perfected in secret over the last four months.

Then he was off, moving away from the decoy hideout, and towards the actual secret base. It took him half an hour of walking through the sewers to find another disguised trapdoor, leading up into a former bathroom. It had been a large, public facility at one point, but it was now abandoned, as were so many underground structures. This particular building now served as James Griffiths' base for all he planned to do. In addition to setting up the decoy and the disguised entrances, he had been outfitting this place with everything he needed: connections to the water and electricity supplies of several nearby buildings, fully functioning toilet facilities, and several other specialised pieces of equipment.

One of these was a computer, which he ignored. He knew that if he hacked into Torchwood, they'd find him like they did at the guesthouse. Now this place was nearing completion, he could move in, and not need to stay on the surface. But he still couldn't be sure about using his computer to hack into government systems. That was one thing he needed to work on. Of course, the recent news from Kate about O'Conner's arrest did sort of complicate things, but it may just help O'Conner see his side of the story.

James paused. Kate. He liked her, sure, and he wanted to be friends with her. It was one thing his professional detachment, built up over several years in America just couldn't overcome his need for companionship. What would she do if she found out what he was planning to do? What would she do if he succeeded? He shook his head, trying to ignore the thought. He would have to decide on that later. Anyway, he had some things to take care of.

Griffin regained consciousness slowly. First it was a slight tingling on the back of his head and in his shoulder. Gradually the feeling increased, resolving into a throbbing ache, and another feeling of lying on a cold, rough concrete floor. He cracked open his eyes, but found it was as dark as it had been with them shut. Gingerly, he sat up, feeling for the back of his head. Someone had shaved off his hair, leaving short stubble caked in… something. Griffin guessed it was dry blood. From the cold of the floor on his arse, he could tell he'd been stripped naked, and was probably locked in a cell somewhere. So he was now a prisoner of the paladins. In other words, he was fucked. Groaning again, he lay back on the cold floor, and fell asleep. Something told him he'd need all the sleep he could get.

It turned out he was right. On the first day, he was awakened by a uniformed guard kicking him hard, then dragging him through a windowless corridor to a darkened room, where his wrists were tied to separate poles, leaving his body completely exposed.

Then it began. The guards began to walk around him, hands clasped behind their backs. One of them leaned forwards until he was only an inch from Griffin's face, his rank breath scouring Griffin's nostrils. Then he grinned, and agonising pain shot through Griffin's body as the guards shoved electric devices into the small of his back and his unprotected groin. The pain was excruciating, setting his nerves on fire, blasting along his synapses, forcing a scream from between his lips. Then it stopped.

Griffin slumped, breathing hard. But that had only been the first second of the pain he was going to endure. It began again, lasting longer than Griffin could keep track of.

Pure agony, like a thousand daggers cutting into his flesh all at once, flooding his mind, consuming him.

And it went on and on, until the guards had tired of the electricity and begun to use… alternative methods of inflicting pain.

It was late when Griffin was returned to his cell. A group of guards had worked in shifts torturing him, each bringing a new torment with them. He'd been beaten, burnt, drowned, and electrocuted. Then finally, as darkness ate at the corners of his vision, he was dragged into the interrogation room and blinded by another white light.

The faceless man behind the light had sneered, "How are you feeling, boy?"

Griffin had been unable to reply, only struggling to breathe through cracked, bleeding lips. The man grunted contemptuously, then launched into the same stream of questions he had prior to the pain. What might make him a target for the Godless: why Torchwood wanted him under arrest. Again, he was unable to answer; again he was dragged back to the cell, and dumped on the cold, damp floor, blood dripping from numerous open wounds.

And they left him there, in the darkness, with the pain.

Cole paced, waiting for his call to be answered. Roberts occasionally glanced nervously his way, then returned to his computer. Eventually, there was a click as the phone was picked up at the other end.

"Speak," said the voice.

"Sir," Cole said, "O'Conner is now in custody."

"Good," the voice said, relief and satisfaction evident, "Learn what you can and then kill him."

"Sir, according to the prison officer, O'Conner seems to have no idea about what's going on. Why the CIA probes are searching for him."

"It's because he's on the Red List," the voice snapped, "Try to use your brain, man. If the American bastards know about the Red List, then it means we have a serious security leak in the US zone."

Cole understood what that meant, "Once the O'Conner matter is dealt with, I'll take the team out there and plug it."

"And find out why, of all the people on the List, the bastards chose O'Conner."

"But if he seems to know nothing…"

"Then torture him until he either tells us or dies," the voice snapped, "and increase the guard. If the CIA probes are that advanced, they'll find where O'Conner is. It could be a chance to draw out CIA sleeper agents. Meanwhile, follow up any lines of inquiry. And circulate the order to the British zone – once this affair is over I never want to hear the name Griffin again. Anyone with that name is to be executed. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Cole said.

"And arrange bombings of American cities. Show the CIA what will happen if they continue to move against God's Earth."

"Yes, your holiness," Cole replied, "May God be with you."

"And with you," said the voice, before hanging up with a sharp click.

Cole shoved the sat-phone into his pocket, and strolled out of the lab. He headed straight for the car, passing Nero on his way.

"Nero," he snapped, "Take me to O'Conner's family home."

"So you see, Mrs O'Conner," Cole said, enjoying the ashen expression on Hannah O'Conner's face, but hiding it well, "We are doing everything we can to retrieve your son from the Godless, but we need to know anything which will help us understand why they targeted him specifically. Then we should be able to find a way to persuade them to release him."

Cole sat in the O'Conner's living room, looking every bit as sincere as if he were a policeman telling them Griffin's body had been pulled out of the Thames. Robert and Hannah were sat on the sofa, Robert holding his wife's hand. Both wore the same expression of concerned parents, although Cole had already concluded they were heretics, through the actions of their offspring. Not that he'd tell them that. They thought he was an official in charge of the police division combating abductions, and it was better to let it stay that way.

"I'm afraid we don't know, officer," Hannah stammered, "Apart from his sister being with Eliza Stoker…"

"Of course," Cole said, standing, "I'm sorry to have been the bearer of bad news. You will contact me if you find anything, won't you?"

"Yes, yes," Robert whispered, glancing down at the card Cole had left on the coffee table, with his number on it.

Cole left the house, and returned to his vehicle in a bad mood.

"A successful evening, sir?" Nero inquired from the front seat.

"No," Cole snapped, "His parents know nothing, ignorant peasants," he added, spitting out the window.

"Do you want to interrogate the boy yourself, sir?"

Cole considered for a moment, "No. The chief warden has instructions on what questions to ask, and to contact us if he gets anything."

"How long could that take?"

"O'Conner is a class D prisoner. High value, but subject to rigorous interrogation." Both knew what 'rigorous interrogation' meant – intensive torture, in such a way as to cause excruciating pain, but little permanent damage. "If he doesn't crack in a month," Cole said, "It's unlikely he will."

"Then what?"

"Then he's dead."

(_AUTHOR'S NOTE_) There you have it. A nice, wordy little cliff-hanger. Ciao for now, and I'll have the next chapter ready as soon as I can. (_END NOTE_)


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Several days passed. Cole began gathering information from local sources – Griffin's teachers, fellow students, friends, and the local paladin. None of this information was particularly helpful, except revealing that O'Conner seemed to be Godless himself. It was therefore possible, if unlikely, that he had made contact with underground Godless groups.

Griffin's days were pretty much the same as the first – burning agony, and little but. Every morning he'd be woken with a beating, then dragged to the interrogation room for some inventive new infliction of pain, often targeting open wounds from previous sessions, or his genitals. Once a day he was force-fed a thin soup through a tube that was shoved into his throat as he was held down. Then he was left in his cell – a stinking room with no windows or toilet, and therefore an occasional pile of crap in the corner – for a few hours, loud noises playing whenever he tried to sleep, and he was again taken for torture. When he was returned to the cell, bleeding, bruised, barely conscious, it was washed out with salt water, making the wounds on his naked body sting. And he was left there for a night, shivering, soaked, until the next day's pain came inexorably closer. The fourth day was the worst, when he was chained up in the interrogation room, and left alone, except for a very sex-starved, very homosexual prison guard, despite the state line of hating such things. And such indoctrination in school had made the experience far worse for Griffin. No doubt the only reason the guard wasn't dead were his helping with torture. He didn't think it could get worse after that – and it had to be said, being tortured for something you had no knowledge of was pretty bad. He was wrong.

Over those days, James Griffiths continued his preparation for what it was he had planned, twice meeting up with Kate for an officially designated 'date'. The first was just to go out for a meal, chat – the usual stuff people did on early dates. They wound up kissing in an alleyway.

James left her at the bus stop, feeling a little wistful. He was growing to like Kate more and more as the days passed. He had found it difficult to have relationships in the past, but he was far more open to such things now, after four years of psychological therapy. He was just beginning to realise what he had missed, and he didn't want to lose it. It worried him even though he knew that it was incredibly likely he'd lose Kate. Lying to someone had never bothered him before; it felt uncomfortable. It felt wrong. So what were his options? To tell her? But then what?

James returned to his lair in the abandoned tunnels beneath London, his head in turmoil. He had another date with Kate in a few days, so he had until then to decide what to do. He went into a small room off the main hall, and settled down on the bed, leaning back. He rested his head on the pillow, and slept, leaving his worries for another day.

By the time those days had passed, Cole was on a plane heading to the former United States, known as the 'American Bible Belt' due to its overwhelmingly Christian population, who had welcomed the Supreme Pope with open arms, and aided in the extermination of the infidel. However, there were the patriots, those who prioritised America above all else. With access to the vast resources of the US, they had set up a resistance, headed by former members of the many organisations – CIA, NSA, the CIEF. There had been a rumour that they were hiding a fugitive for years, but nothing was ever found. Cole was taking the Torchwood team to New York, to search out resistance safe-houses and find out what they wanted with Griffin O'Conner, considering the case in London closed as the boy was in prison, and was either ignorant of what the Americans thought of him, or had a very high pain threshold.

Griffin himself was unconcerned with having a high pain threshold, as the interrogators had started to use hallucinogenic drugs during torture sessions. It was only a matter of time before his body gave up, and he either died or went insane. Wasn't it obvious that he didn't know anything? Who wouldn't break after a week of agony?

James Griffiths met up with Kate Hudson for another night out, as arranged. This time they went to see a concert by a rock group, a genre disliked by the authorities but reluctantly tolerated because of the way it connected with young people, or 'the future custodians of God's Earth' as Everett had put it. The group weren't the best they'd ever seen, but it was better than Lily Allen (anything was better than Lily Allen), and what else was there for a young couple to do on a Saturday night in a religion-obsessed world?

It was when the concert had finished, that James took Kate down a back alley, towards the entrance to the cellar he used as a decoy lair.

"Where are we going?" Kate asked, glancing round the dingy street.

"There's something I need to show you," James replied.

Kate's eyebrows went up, "You're not going to take advantage of me, young man?"

James winced, and Kate realised the joke had been inappropriate. Whatever this thing he wanted to show her was, he was clearly nervous about it. It was, therefore, likely to be… well, not something the Church would approve of. Stolen goods? A stack of pornography (unlikely)? Or did he just want to have sex? She figured she knew James well enough to know that any of those was unlikely – she felt she could trust him. But the paladins at college had always warned of those who would lure the faithful away from the Path…

James stopped, using a key to release the manhole cover. He glanced towards Kate, noting her raised eyebrows.

"It's just a cellar," he said, anxiously, "Nothing to be afraid of."

Kate watched as he descended, weighing up whether or not to follow him. It was very suspicious… but Kate could kick quite hard, and had made plenty of leeches think twice in nightclubs. She reckoned she could fend him off if he tried anything, as much as she disliked thinking he would. In any case, her first target would have to be the traditional male weak spot…

"Are you coming?" James' voice floated up the shaft.

Kate sighed, and followed him down the shaft. She emerged in a sparsely furnished cellar, where James was waiting. He sealed the manhole cover behind her, trapping her. She had to be on her guard, just in case.

"Do you live here?" she asked, noting the bed in the corner.

"Nah," he said, moving over to the table, where there were several files, "This is a decoy, just in case."

"Why would you need a decoy?"

"Why d'you think?"

Kate sighed, "So what did you want to show me?"

"These," James motioned to the files on the table, "because I really like you," he said, "and I want to be able to continue seeing you," he sighed, running a hand through his brown hair, "but I think you'll want nothing more to do with me if you find out what I'm trying to do," he said at last.

"And what's that?" Kate asked, relieved he wasn't going to rape her and that she could stop supposing that, but now very interested.

James sighed, and told her. By the time he had finished, Kate's mouth was hanging open, and it took her a few minutes to gather her thoughts.

"But that's insane…" she whispered, "Why?"

"Read the files," James replied, looking away.

So Kate did, and was horrified. She looked up at James, tears in her eyes, "Oh God…" she croaked, ignoring the fact she was taking the Lord's name in vain.

James came over and knelt next to her. She put her arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"It's alright," he whispered. About half an hour later Kate was finally beginning to calm down, but she was unable to get the memory of what she had read out of her head.

"I have a plan," James was saying, "but I do need something. Someone. Griffin O'Conner."

"You mean that guy who was abducted? Why?"

James smiled, "Not completely sure, but there's a list with his name on it. I don't know what it means, but it seems that he should be able to help."

"Why can't you find someone else on this list?"

"A lot of them have died in mysterious circumstances," James replied, face grim, "Griffin was the youngest, and the record suggests he'll be more sympathetic…"

"So you want to…"

"Bust him out of prison, yes. I have a little, shall we say, _understanding_ with the police sergeant, so I was able to find out where he is."

"Understanding?" Kate frowned.

"Yes. Photoshop is very useful in that respect," James grinned, "I have several photos of him kissing another man, and you know what the Church thinks of that…"

Kate stood up. "I think I need to go home and sleep all this off," she said.

"That's a good idea," he said. Kate began to walk over towards the manhole.

"Will I see you again?" James asked quietly as she reached the ladder.

She turned, smiling sadly, and walked back towards him. She kissed him on the lips, sliding a hand under his shirt, losing herself in the sensation of his lips on hers and running her hand over his muscular chest.

She drew back, and whispered, "I'll be in touch," before returning to the ladder.

"Er," James said, "I'm not free Tuesday night…"

Kate smiled, and caught the keys he threw to her.

After she'd gone, James left the cellar and headed to his real lair, the abandoned Victoria station. In a few days time, on Tuesday night, Griffin O'Conner would be officially leaving prison.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was Tuesday night when the lights went out. The power was cut over a small area of London: a small area that included the maximum-security Hillingdon prison. The fact that the surrounding area was also powerless was what convinced the guards at the prison that this was just one of the routine power cuts which had been happening with increasing frequency lately. And since they believed it to be nothing but that, they didn't increase the number of guards on duty.

Then it happened. A large motor vehicle _slammed_ into the gates of the prison, driving straight through and heading directly for the main reception. As it approached like a speeding train, crosses hanging from its sides were set on fire, and as it smashed into the building, figures leapt from the sides and crashed to the ground. The guards swarmed towards the vehicle, opening fire at the figures as they stood up. Most were killed immediately, but some began to fire back with weapons of their own, whilst others charged at the guards, and exploded as they came close.

On the lowest level of the prison, there was a small store room where the guards kept the drugs they used in interrogation, which exploded midway through the attack on the gate.

As the dust settled, the guards came running, peering through the huge hole in the floor. A few tried to radio it in to the control room, but before they could even touch their radios, all four were taken out by a silenced Beretta sniper rifle. A figure dressed in dark clothes hauled himself out of the hole, and quickly took the guards' weapons. He moved quickly down the corridor, heading for the level's office. The guard turned around as the door was kicked open, and received a bullet in the head for his trouble.

The figure dragged the chair to the corner of the room, pulling the guard's body out of it, stood on it and wrenched the security camera out of the wall.

Then the prison's lights flickered, and the emergency generator came online after about eight minutes of blackness. It was all just as the figure had planned. He accessed the computer's database of prisoners, and found the one he was looking for. Then he removed a small device from his backpack, and fixed it into the office's plug socket. Hitting the switch sent activated the electrical transformer within the device, causing the current flowing within the prison's power grid to rocket upwards. All through the building, fuses blew and electrical equipment was rendered useless.

The figure was already moving, heading directly for the cell he had located. He attached a small explosive to the lock, and stepped back. With the lock taken care of, the door swung open.

The figure paused in the doorway, looking at the prisoner in front of him. Griffin O'Conner looked terrible. After a week of having no food or water, except being force-fed his own shit and piss, he was thin, and looked more than a little ill. He was naked, and his body was covered with cuts, scabs, bruises and burns and his own dried blood. His head had been shaved, and there was blood all down the side of his face. His eyes were closed, and his thin chest was barely rising and falling.

The figure wasted no time, hauling Griffin's naked body over his shoulder, and heading back to the hole in the ground.

News of the breakout was suppressed, whereas news of the attack by fundamentalist Islamists wasn't. The escaped prisoner was not found, despite the discovery of an open manhole cover nearby, where the prisoner's accomplices had probably entered the sewers.

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Griffin's eyes cracked open, and as the world around him came into focus, he looked around him.

He was lying, naked, on a bed in a dark room, sweat covering his skin, connected up to tubes and wires. There was a bleeping noise from the heart monitor beside the bed, beating in time with the thumping of his head. His vision seemed to be hazy, dark, and he could hear faint voices.

He tried to sit up and pull the electrodes from his bare chest, but he couldn't move. His eyes flicked around the room, trying vainly to pierce the darkness. There was the noise of a door, and the sound of footsteps.

"Ah, you're awake," said a voice in the dark, "You're probably unable to move at the moment. That'll be a side-effect of some of the drugs. Very unpleasant substances – hallucinogens, stimulants, pain-causers. I had to get pump you full of more drugs to counteract their effects."

The owner of the voice lifted something to a bag hanging from a hook, and seconds later Griffin felt a coldness travelling through his veins. He guessed he was connected to an intravenous line, which had just deposited the drugs in his system.

"You've been in a coma for three weeks, so movement should be a while in coming back."

Griffin said nothing. Not that he could say anything.

"I'll be back later," said the figure, and left the room.

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Cole stepped off the plane, anger stabbing into his brain. O'Conner had been broken out of prison. Woo-hoo. That meant his little group would have to spend the next month or so hunting for the boy amidst the dreary English weather, and whoever had broken the brat out was no fool. To break in to a maximum security prison and escape would require some place to lie low for the next year. This mysterious party would no doubt have one which had been very carefully selected, so as to be as secret as possible and easy to escape from should they need to do so.

Cole ground his teeth. It was all to do with those American bastards, the remains of the CIA, and that probe into the Red List. Even with top Torchwood access, he'd only been allowed to view details of the plans concerning the people on that list. The Supreme Pope had spent the last few years trying to eliminate the people on that list (O'Conner's termination had been set for the first Tuesday in October next year). But the CIA twats must have known this was coming, and got him out, probably with help from the ruins of the British SIS. That was the annoying thing.

Even before the armies of Christendom had taken over the Americas, at least half of the population of the US of A had been incredibly stupid and self-obsessed. The powers that be had determined to keep them that way, and had done very well. The few patriotic imbeciles who put their country first had easily been caught out making stupid mistakes, thus denying the American Resistance much of their support base. But clearly not all.

The British Resistance was much more difficult to ferret out. On the whole, British people were much more intelligent than Americans, and also more patient as well. They wouldn't be found for the simple fact that they did almost nothing to actually resist, spending their time building up support networks between the ex-MI6 and MI5 operatives, who'd had the sense to scatter and destroy their databases when the armies came a-calling. They also had the sense not to be caught out by doing something simple.

Whatever the reason, Griffin O'Conner was being sheltered by ex-MI agents who no doubt planned to ship him out to the Americas sometime soon.

"Nero," Cole said, calling his lieutenant over as they climbed into the waiting SUV.

"I want all outbound travellers from Britain searched. I don't care where they're going or what mode of transport they're using. Boat, train, plane – search it, X-ray it, tap it with a tuning fork – just search it."

"Could O'Conner have left in the weeks since his escape?" Nero asked, aware it had been several weeks since the breakout.

"The prison governor said he was in a critical condition," Cole replied as he lifted his mobile phone to his ear, "It was really dangerous to move him, and if he survived the breakout, he'll spend a few weeks in a coma at least."

His call was answered by the government complex in Atlanta, where Torchwood had recently raided an NSA resistance base.

"I want a check of the records on the computers we recovered," he said, after confirming his authorisation, "Look for any connections with British resistance cells, and any other American cells that might be connected with British cells."

He clicked off his phone, then activated the laptop computer concealed in the dashboard in front of the passenger seat, and set about sending some important emails.

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Later.

Griffin was able to twitch his fingers and toes, but he was still unable to move enough to pull the needle delivering drugs into his system out of his hand. His host had been kind enough to provide him with some music to listen to, but it was repetitive pop music with the kind of religious undertones that drove Griffin mad. However, all he could do was put up with it.

He was also uncomfortably aware of the various medical equipment and tubes stuck into his various orifices, such as the pipe that went through his nose to deliver solid food to his stomach. He was also acutely aware that eventually he would have to have them pulled out at some point, and he was really _not_ looking forward to when the catheter inserted into his bladder would be removed.

His host, who had introduced himself as James Griffiths when changing the intravenous bag a few hours ago, had explained he didn't mean Griffin any harm, and that he had a certain proposition, which he would explain when Griffin was feeling better. Griffin had wanted to ask why the paladins had taken him in to custody, but of course he couldn't, since he wasn't in full control of his vocal chords. Since James seemed to be aiding his recovery, Griffin decided to wait around and hear the kid out. Well, James was certainly a kid, even if he only looked a year or two older than Griffin, who was eighteen.

Most of the time Griffin was alone, with the various tubes sticking out of him, a heart monitor bleeping next to him, and occasionally a little music playing. The music could only last for an hour or so, as James claimed it was to 'conserve power', but had graduated from irritating pop music to a more varied mix – heavy metal and rock (which was banned under the current regime), and some classical. Though he would never admit it, Griffin was now getting quite fond of the New World Symphony. There was also music from the _Lord of the Rings_ movies and the TV series _Doctor Who_, which were great, if spoiled by the Christian overtones (such as the Hobbits taking time out to pray to the Virgin Mary and the Orcs reading the Qur'an or the Daleks wearing turbans and declaring a fatwa on the Doctor). Still, the music was good.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Time passed, and Cole was not in a good mood.

All trace of Griffin O'Conner had vanished. The school the boy had attended were none the wiser, and his parents had the same problem. Even when Cole had killed the boy's mother, her husband had not been forthcoming. The guards at the prison where O'Conner had been 'interrogated' had been unable to shed any light on the boy's escape, and had been executed for incompetence.

Cole ran over his theories in his mind – O'Conner had obviously had an accomplice who broke him out of prison, possibly a CIA agent. The computer probe had been from a known CIA cell, and the Americans were tenacious bastards. The Supreme Pope was on his back most days, throwing tantrums when little progress had been made, and giving no reason for his insistence and panic over O'Conner, and the ravings that any person in the world named Griffin should be located and executed.

Cole sighed, then glanced over to the computer terminal in Torchwood's operations base. Nero was sitting there, reviewing screenshots from the CCTV cameras spread through the city and the various ways out of the country. The problem with the cameras was that their programme flagged any image that contained a person who looked a bit like O'Conner, so they had to spend most of the day eliminating the false identifications. Which happened to be all of them.

* * *

A week had passed, and Griffin was now able to move on his own. All the tubes had been removed, and the catheter had been quite painful. James had found him a t-shirt, some shorts and a mirror, which had given him a bit of a shock.

His face was not as he remembered it. His hair was starting to get long again, but his face was scarred, the pale lines cutting across his cheeks, eyes and forehead. And his eyes… one was its normal pale blue colour, but the other was a milky orb, with no pupil and half a red iris. And he was blind in it as well.

"It was the drugs they used on you," James had said, uncomfortably, when Griffin glanced at him.

The signs of the torture manifested in other ways – nightmares, a limp, a sharp pain whenever he gripped too hard with his right hand, a slight corruption in his accent. Griffin guessed he could get used to them, but he wondered what his incarceration meant – for some reason, he was considered a criminal, and that meant that if he ever showed his face in public again, it would probably be cut off by the authorities after years of torture.

Then there was the question of this James Griffiths character. He was maybe three years older than Griffin, and seemed a nice enough guy. But even the nicest of faces could hide the most sinister of agendas. But for the moment, James was being very accommodating and Griffin may as well take advantage of that.

James had also allowed Griffin out of the small room where the medical equipment had been, and apparently the door had never been locked. James seemed to be living in a large underground structure, which was a maze of corridors, spiral staircases and large platforms. James had explained that it was an abandoned train station from London's underground network, the large tunnels connecting to other abandoned stations. James was only using a small part of the station as his base – he had converted offices into sleeping quarters, a kitchen, storage rooms and seemed to have transformed the lower platform into a private gymnasium for some unknown reason. There were also fully functional toilets and shower facilities.

Well, it was unknown until James and Griffin sat down on oil drums to eat about a month after James had rescued Griffin from the prison.

James was a surprisingly good cook, and his sausages were to die for. Sausages were what they were eating, sitting in silence on sealed oil drums. Griffin sat hunched over his army-issue mess tin, a square saucepan-like thing that could be cooked in and eaten out of, his bare feet resting flat on the concrete floor, devouring the meat with relish. Then James spoke.

"You seem to be recovering well," he said.

"So?" Griffin said through a mouthful of Pork, glancing up with his good eye.

"Some time ago I mentioned I had a proposition," James said, sipping some water from a bottle by his feet.

Griffin glanced up, narrowing his eyes, "And?" he said.

"And here it is," James sat back, putting his mess tin on the oil drum serving as a table.

"I'm doing some work with the ICG. They are, or were, an American intelligence agency dedicated to ensuring America's technological superiority. Although they've been officially disbanded, they're still around, trying to resist the Supreme Pope's forces."

"I saw that on the news," Griffin said, "Subversive infidels, they said."

"Propaganda," James dismissed it, "The thing about religion is that its followers often have very negative attitudes to people who disagree with them. Look at the Cathars."

"What?"

"Sorry," James said, smiling as if he'd just proved a point, "They're not on the official history syllabus. They were a religious sect from several hundred years ago with slightly different views to the Catholic Church. So the Church, in the spirit of peace and loving thy neighbour, wiped them out. The words which spring to mind are 'holocaust' and 'genocide'. But that's not the point."

"So what is the point?"

"The point is," James said, "What would the world be like if that sort of thing didn't happen? Where people were free to have their own opinions?"

Griffin laughed sarcastically, "A fucking brilliant one. But you've missed something – if you want to bring down the Paladins, than you're fucking mental."

"Who said anything about bringing down the paladins?"

"It's bloody obvious," Griffin snapped, "All that talk of 'what would the world be like without them'. And I'm telling you, it can't be done."

"And why not?" James was getting defensive.

"The paladins have loads of support throughout the world," Griffin said, "nutters who think there's some big beardy man up there watching over us. People who inform on any kind of non-conformity."

"That's only because they don't know what's really going on," James said acidly, "and if they did, they'd probably be horrified."

He leaned forward, cutting off Griffin's next sarcastic retort, "You're a city boy. Tell me – have you ever left London, or even the suburb where you were born?"

Griffin paused, "No," he admitted.

"Your parents were probably brought here from wherever because they were intelligent and had the aptitude to work in the Pope's research facilities. Yes?"

"Yeah…" Griffin said, growing uncertain.

"Have you ever asked yourself what happened to those who weren't seen as part of the Pope's glorious Christendom?"

Griffin didn't speak. James pulled a stack of files out from a case lying next to the oil drums.

"I think you should read these."

* * *

Griffin read the files.

They consisted of testimonies from various people 'rescued' from detention centres across the world using the CIA's old connections. Amongst these was the story of Marcus, a former priest who had been close to the Supreme Pope. One night, he was attacked in his lodgings and taken to a detention camp in Siberia, where he was interrogated. Apparently he had been seen speaking to a known opponent of the Pope. He had no idea what they were talking about,

At the camp he saw many people he recognised. Priests, government officials, influential businessmen – all united in the concentration camp as people whom the Pope was concerned about, in all his paranoid schizophrenic glory. All the inmates had received regular humiliation and beatings whilst being forced to work building nuclear weapons and atomic power sources, with highly unstable Uranium and enriched Plutonium. A footnote to the file said that Marcus had died shortly after his rescue, of pneumonia and radiation poisoning.

There was also a story recounted by Antonio, a foreman on a slave-gang mining in the Mexican highlands, of how he was arrested for complaining about working conditions. He was held and tortured for three weeks, and will never be able to walk again. He remarked on how the interrogators had been very skilled; on how they'd kept him alive, but in excruciating pain for weeks. Griffin stopped reading as Antonio had begun to describe the methods used, as they evoked painful memories.

But it was Maria's story that shocked him the most, tears pricking in his eyes as he read:

'_My husband was close to the Pope. We had just returned from the hospital after having our third child when they came for us. I was separated from my husband and the children and left in a cell for two days, but not allowed to sleep. I was exhausted, starving, confused, disorientated. Then I was interrogated – questions I couldn't answer because I didn't know the answers. Then I began to realise they weren't interested in the truth, just in getting me to say what they wanted. They told me that if I made a statement, my children could go free. So I did. I was left alone again, no food, no toilet, filthy, exhausted. Then the door opened and they brought my children in. And… and then he came in too. The Supreme Pope. I couldn't believe it. I thought I'd gone mad. Then the guards forced my children to their knees… and… and he shot them. In turn. In the head. He was… smiling… I'm sorry, I can't go on…'_

Griffin looked up, seeing that James was watching him.

"Terrible, isn't it?" James said quietly. Griffin nodded, then James continued, "And that's just the tip of the iceberg. The ICG supplied me with a load of communications intercepts and captured documents about the invasion of America, policy on the slave-fields of Africa, destruction of heretical artefacts and the war in the Middle-East."

"Why are you doing this?" Griffin asked.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to bring down the Paladins?"

"Ah," James sighed, "I was brought up in America, which is quite different to England. The population was split between south and north – the southerners welcomed the Supreme Pope's administration, and began lobbying the White House to surrender control to him. The politicians, intelligence agencies, and northerners were against it. Therefore, the Pope supplied arms to the south and supported an uprising against the north with troops from Europe. The president, congress and senate were executed, and America became part of Christendom, and used to launch invasions of Canada, Mexico and South America. However, the intelligence services survived and, being patriotic, or perhaps slightly mad, set up a resistance movement. Because my dad got involved, I got involved as well. They sent me over here to try and find a way to bring down the Pope."

Griffin chewed on a sausage, then asked, "But why do you need me?"

"Because of the Red List," James said, "I don't know why you're on it – something to do with your DNA, maybe. But whatever it is, you were the only person on the list who is still alive. It was believed that the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith – a shadowy group within the Vatican – was planning your assassination, so we had to move fast."

Griffin sighed. This was rather a lot for him to take in.

"I can train you up," James said, "Show you how to use weapons, martial arts."

"What if I say no?"

"I have orders to force you to say yes, and I'd rather not do that," James replied evenly, then removed a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Griffin. It was a communications intercept from a few days ago.

Griffin read it, then looked up.

"Yes."


End file.
